


Silk

by Hazzardous_Lemurs



Series: Weave the Crimson Web [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blood Mages, Blood and Gore, Combat, Earth, Emotional Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Kinloch Hold, Nordic Mythology - Freeform, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sisters, Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-04-14 11:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14135328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazzardous_Lemurs/pseuds/Hazzardous_Lemurs
Summary: The witch glared at her. “If that is all you want out of life, then you are more a fool than they.” Turning, she took several steps to her hovel. Having a change of thought she stared back at the other woman. Studying her for several moments, Morrigan finally said, “I stopped explaining myself when I realised that other people will only understand from their own level of perception.” With a swish of feathers and leather, she marched off to her bedroll, but not before calling over her shoulder. “I would consider what they said to you my dear, and what you actually are.”





	1. White

White.

She was surrounded by white.

White walls. White furniture. White floor. 

Even the damn flowers on the coffee table were white tulips.

Everything was white.

Even the dress she was wearing was white. _You could lose a polar bear in here_ , she giggled to herself. A whisper of frivolity in what had been a sombre day.

Mirin was standing on a square platform, surrounded by floor to ceiling mirrors. Behind her, the doors to the dressing room opened, and her fiancé and mother were ushered into the space. She calmed her face into a mask of neutrality, as they fussed over the dress she was wearing. Neither liking, nor hating the ballroom style gown, she maintained her indifference like armour.

“Can I try the sheath gown with the sweetheart neckline?” she quietly inquired with the saleswoman. The woman gave Mirrin a warm smile and nodded, rattling of several gowns that would look beautiful on the small woman. The dirty blonde smiled her thanks, and waited for the saleswoman to return. Her attention was caught by a range of veils, hung up so the length of the veil could be seen. Running her hand over the delicate lace of a cathedral length vintage veil, she watched her mother and fiancé pull gown after gown from the racks. Their pile growing bigger with each gown viewed.

Returning with several sheath gowns, the saleswoman saw the faraway look in Mirrin’s eyes. “That would look perfect with this gown,” she nodded towards the veil Mirrin was admiring. Straightening up, and pulling her hand back quickly, the bride to be gave a tight smile to the waiting woman. “Shall we try them on,” she said hurriedly, taking a quick glance back to her mother and fiancé.

Sweeping into the large dressing room, the saleswoman arranged the gowns on the hangers, closed the doors and assisted with the intricacies of wearing a wedding gown. Throwing the doors back, to allow the blinding overhead lights to shine off the delicate beadwork around the neckline, the saleswoman motioned for Mirrin’s companions to join them. “I think we have found it!” she exclaimed happily, rushing over to get the vintage veil.

Her mother and fiancé turned from their task, and glared at the woman on the box. Slowly leaving their pile of dresses, in unison they walked over to the happy woman. “Excuse me,” the saleswoman smiled up at the fiancé who gave a huff and moved ever so slightly. Attaching the veil to Mirrin’s hair, “There, that finishes it up nicely,” the saleswoman beamed.

Mirrin was staring at her reflection. Her dirty blonde hair was free to frame her soft face, the veil highlighted the gentle curls as they wrapped around the scalloped edges of the lace. The dress skimmed over her slight curves, accentuating her slim waist, and hiding her lacking chest with the delicate lace work. The drop of the waist and the soft fall of the fabric creating a waterfall of ivory, giving the illusion of height to the short woman. It was perfect, she agreed. A smile began to creep across her lips. She smiled back at herself. Content with the image she sought approval from her mother and fiancé. Faces contorted in disgust, eyes hard, mouths pursed tight. Her face fell, her eyes misting over. No, this was not the dress.

So now she stood in a pair of white stilettos on the equally white box. A white, ballroom style dress was being laced up behind her. She looked like a barbie doll, except with short legs and no boobs. Her mind had wandered, her body reacting to the directions of the saleswoman. Any joy she had previously gone with the gown she had chosen. Dumped on the floor with the vintage lace veil. The message was clear. Her desires were wrong.

 _Just one thing_ , she screamed in her mind, _Just one thing that is mine!_  But she would never voice it. No, never. The wrath of her mother, and now her fiancé, made sure of complete compliance from the young woman. And compliance she gave them. _It was better that way_ , she told herself. _They know what I need better than I do_ , she would tell herself. _That is why they love me_ , she didn’t even pick up on the illogical reasoning.

Hour after hour, she tried on dresses. Nothing looked as good as the sheath dress she had chosen. Her faults pointed out with each gown. “If only you were taller,” her mother sighed dramatically after one gown. When another required a bustier woman, her fiancé lamented her meagre chest, “Surgery can help with that.” Dress after dress was met with passive aggressive backhanded comments. It is lovely, but would be better if your hair was darker, your skin lighter, your waist smaller… blah blah blah. Nothing pleased them. _If I can’t be perfect_ , she reasoned with herself, _I will make the reception perfect_. Her determination held firm in her eyes.

Her mother’s black limousine snaked around the long windy roads towards their mansion, its gently rumble emanating up from the floor. She sat near the front of the car, her mother and fiancé towards the back. No one had talked to her since they had left the bridal boutique. Questions and answers whispered between the two were never directed at the woman, she was never privy to their machinations. Only ever the pawn in their game. She smiled whenever they glanced at her, never returning the warmth she directed at them. Mirrin did not know what she did wrong. But then, she never did. All she knew was that she was wrong.


	2. Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello My Lovelies,
> 
> This story is part of three, each following one of the sisters from the prologue.
> 
> The stories are dependent and independent of each other. I am playing around with time and fate, so what happens in one story may be undone in another. There are common themes and signposts in each story, but each sister will have different skills, hurdles, and powers that will be needed.
> 
> Hopefully it works.
> 
> Posting will be one story, once a week. So if you are following one story, new chapters will be every three weeks.

* * *

 

She had been staring at the seating plan mock up for hours now. Her current dilemma was whether Mrs Chesterfield should be seated towards the middle with her ex-husband, as her social position demanded. Or whether she should be put towards the outer tables, since she was no longer married to him. Grabbing a book on seating etiquette, she flipped through the worn pages, dog-earing pages that may provide some insight.

Mirrin has no idea who Mrs Chesterfield is, nor her former husband. But her fiancé, John, insisted that both be on the guest list. Shrugging at the unfamiliar name for what seems like the hundredth time, the petite woman shuffled the name tag over to the outer tables. John had talked more about the ex-husband, waxing poetic about the man’s business prowess, and that if John could get him to invest… Mirrin had stopped listening by then. It was always how her fiancé could manipulate his business partners. Time and time again though, he was manipulated back in return.

Tayce would laugh when John would rant about how he was deceived, and how he couldn’t trust anyone, and how none of them were truly smart enough to outwit him. She would sit at the dining table, staring at him when he started to describe the person in the most colourful terms. It always amused Mirrin, though she would never show it, how when John had finished his rant, Tayce would take a deep breath, stare him down and say, “I think it was Socrates who said, ‘when the debate is lost, slander becomes the tool of the loser’.” Her oldest sister is not allowed in their home anymore.  

Looking back at the plan, the ex-husband had the money, she argued, therefore he gets prime position. Mirrin hated this task. Picking and choosing placed depending on what one can get out of another, determining social status or gossip worthiness, valuing a person based on their monetary worth and not their inner worth. She hated it with a passion. Who knows, Mrs Chesterfield could be a wonderful woman, worthy of Mirrin’s friendship. But because of her mother’s and fiancé’s social standing, that would never occur.

Arranging several more names around the plan, she finalised Mrs Chesterfield’s table. “I hope that works,” she muttered, throwing prayers of hope to whatever god was listening. The seating arrangements were almost complete. Only a few family members, invited to keep up appearances, remained. Those she could dot around the room where there were gaps. Sliding her chair back, wooden legs scraping against the old tiles, she stood up and stretched her small frame. It was time for a break. Wandering off to the toilet, she glanced into the living room, her sisters were already at the Landsmeet. Damn, she thought, they have been playing this game a lot.

 

Alistair stood in the middle of the throne room, shaking with fury.  He was being betrayed. By the one woman he did not expect. The woman that he had fought for. The woman that he followed. The woman that he loved. The woman that shared his bed only just last night, was now leading him to the gallows.

“You’re siding with her,” he spat. “How could you do this to me? You, of all people.” The elven woman stared back at him in silence. She knew what anger was, she knew what betrayal was. She knew what revenge was. Manipulating the companions so hers would be sweet, and deadly. He was ready to leave, to wash his hands of her, of them, of everything.

“It’s not as simple as that, Alistair,” Anora’s silky voice, snaked around the Landsmeet. He knew what she wanted. And she would get it. The warden would see to it. His blood, dripping down off the block as his head rolled, stopping at the dainty slipper of the bitch that would-be queen.

This wasn’t right. This path was wrong, his mind screamed at him. It is not supposed to end this way. As he was led away, hands shackled, he shrugged. “And we seal our fate with the choices we make,” he whispered to no one. 

 

Two large, black crows were perching on the wooden chairs, of Tayce’s motley dining suite. The French doors of the dining room wide open, and a steady breeze of cool air wrapping around the freshly painted walls. Mirrin was rooted to her spot as she watched the pair dance and play in the hundreds of name tags she had spent hours painstakingly placing. Dread filled her up, and fear settling like a familiar friend, on her shoulder. She began to shake, beginning with her hands, it travelled over her body in waves. Each wave, the tremors became stronger, until her knees buckled under her. Paralysed from the dual emotions, she just watched the crows, her chest heaving sobs, as her fate became clear.

In a flurry of black, Tayce had chased the birds out of her home. “Come on Miri,” her firm, but kind voice pulling the bride to be out of her panic. “Better to live on our feet than die on our knees.” Shutting the doors firmly, she turned back to the carnage the creatures had created. Sighing, she gave Mirrin a smile as Elde helped her up. “Did you take pictures as you went, Miri?” The younger woman shook her head. Giving her an apologetic look, the tall woman looked back at the table plan. “Alright, let’s figure this shit out,” she said resignedly.

Mirrin just shook her head. Her mother was going to kill her. And her fiancé was going to…. She shuddered. They were expecting it done for the morning. It had taken her all day to do it, and now. She picked up a name tag, holes poked in it where the bird had held it in its claws. Tears falling without being recognised, she heaped the tags back in a pile, and started again. Her sisters made moves to help her, but she waved them away. Mother expected her to do this, and it needed to be perfect. This she would get perfect, she demanded of herself. Giving into her fate, she began the arduous process again.    


	3. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mirrin is the hardest sister to write. I feel like I am putting her through an emotional wringer every time I write a chapter. She is the most erratic of the sisters as her entrenchment with her abusers is being disintegrated. Sorry Mirrin... it has to happen.

* * *

 

 

She was going too fast. Her reactions were barely keeping up with the twists and turns of the narrow road. Tyres crunching over the gravel edges, she pulled the car back onto the tarmac, and hit the break. Several moments later the car had slowed to a suitable speed for the windy down hill road. Wiping away the tears that were marring her vision, she gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.

They had thrown the seating plan out. Didn’t even look at it. Mirrin had set it up on the grand dining room table, each name placed with purpose on the cardboard plan. Her mother did not even glance at her handiwork. John had smirked and said he thought her work was ‘cute’. Her mother calling over her shoulder that the wedding planner was coming to organise the seating plan today, and that Mirrin was not required to attend. Waving her away with a swipe of her skeletal hand. 

Dismissed from planning her own wedding, the young woman had stormed out of the mansion in a rare display of anger. Fleeing the grounds in her car, her fury at being disregarded once again burned at her. Her constant companions, dread and fear, quiet on her shoulders. “How dare they do this again to me,” she yelled at the windscreen. “It’s my wedding too. Don’t I get to have a say?!”

Screaming at the world, she continued to rage against the world. Pulling into a nearby national park, she parked the car in the empty car park. Slamming the door as she exited, she did not look back, as she stormed over to the start of the walking paths. Without thinking, she headed down her favourite path. Oblivious to the world around her, she continued to mutter her grievances with each step she took.

The path took her through a small valley, and up a steep incline. The goal was to reach the top of the small mountain. An achievable feat for anyone with an ounce of fitness. The valley was split in two by a small creek. At this time of year, it ran dry, its smooth stones baking in the sweltering summer sun.

“Am I fated to live this life?!” she questioned the surrounding canopy, “Do I not have a choice in all of this?” she implored a higher power. The only answer returned was the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the faraway call of the native crows. “Ugh!” she argued against the silence, and began the steep climb to the top.

Reaching the summit, the woman collapsed, holding herself up with the pine barrier of the lookout. Exhausted from her rage, all Mirrin could manage was some gentle gulps as she tried to catch her breath. Her constant companions returning to their positions on her shoulders, began to whisper their irrational diatribe. _You just didn’t do a good enough job,_ whispered her fear. _Yea_ , agreed her dread, _you will never be good enough for them_. Grabbing at her head, she covered her ears, “Stop!”

A scratching chuckle caught her attention, spinning around the woman was faced with nothing. _Just like you are without them_ , her fear sneered. _Nothing_. Her dread crept up and held her shoulders firmly. _You are nothing without them, you can’t even do a simple seating plan._

The cacophony of accusations came thick and fast as she became bound to her fear and dread. “No, no, no,” she chanted, hands tight against her ears, trying to block the noises that were coming from her own head. “I am more than that,” she screeched, jumping up and racing back down the track.

Her footing unsteady as she made her descent, stumbling over loose rocks and gravel, she hurled herself down the path. Her desperate steps trying to bring her further away from her accusers, though in her head they were as loud as ever. _You are just their pawn_ , they taunted, _you never had an original thought in your mind_. “What?” her voice reaching fever pitch, “I can, I do,” she pleaded.

 _You’re just your mother’s puppet. You are not even a person_ , they jeered. Her eyes darting, wide and glassy, never finding what she was searching for. “Yes, I am!”

_Then prove it!_

She splashed through the small creek, her wet shoes slipping on the algae caught on the smooth rocks. Dripping, she left a trail of wet footprints heading into the forest. The track disappearing, low hanging branches slapped her across her face. Stumbling, and clawing her way through the underbrush she searched frantically for the walking trail. Round and round, she went, past trees, bushes, boulders, each different and yet the same. Nothing familiar, and yet nothing unfamiliar. Pushing her way through another shrub, her footing faltered, slipping on the gravelly surface. Her heart lurched as her foot was met with no resistance. The momentum of her body, propelling her through the plant and over the small cliff face.

Down she fell. The rocky ground hurtling towards her. There was no time to think about her fate, as she landed on the downy, plump pillows stacked against the hard, rounded walls of the room. Rolling down from the large pile, confusion danced across her light blue eyes, her gently tanned skin wrinkling slightly. Before she could take stock of her surroundings, her ears were assaulted with the over zealous screech of a man.

“Bind her!” a man in an oversized red robe directed at her. “Chain her! Hold her down! The senior enchanter will want to see this.”


	4. Soaked

The cold steel was biting into her arms. Bound in irons, her wrists and ankles shackled of their full range of movements. Still burning with the fury her mother had stoked within her, Mirrin struggled, bit, and cursed her captors. The resulting backhand across her face sending her back into her default state of compliance. _Just like mother does_ , she hissed under her breath. Her eyes pricking with tears, finally allowed to fall, she crumpled under the weight of the shackles and her captor’s hands.  

Her captors, never looking in her face, held her firmly across her shoulders. Thin, soft hands, biting into her shoulder where they held her. Their long robes, swished across the floor as they dragged the woman to their destination. Time stood still as they followed the circular whitewashed walls, winding their way around and around the structure. She was sure they were heading up the building, but the multitude of stairs both up and down, had her bamboozled as to the direction they were taking.

After a while Mirrin became aware of how strangely familiar it all was, but within her turmoil of resentment and despair, she failed to notice the details that would reveal the truth of her situation.

Passing room after room, she peered through the sway of the robes of the men detaining her, to see what they held. Sometimes they were empty, other times more people in robes, huddled together, whispering soothing words of victory. A few, splattered with blood and gore. Armoured men, held prisoner, tortured, maimed, driven crazy with pain. Writhing, screaming, tearing, attempting to rid themselves of their own skin. Mirrin screamed, bile rising from her gut, making her mouth water. The men sneered at her to shut up, and heaved her away, back to their path.

Round and round, they went, up and down the stairs. The number of armoured bodies Mirrin saw laying around steadily increased. Ravaged, razed, ruined. The carcasses becoming less and less recognisable as human.  Slipping on the floor, she looked down, and held back her cry. Slick with congealing blood, the floor was now awash with the red substance. The dolts that were holding her, oblivious to the carnage that their long robes were soaking up as they walked.

Sticky and wet, the fabric flapped at their pale legs, leaving their limbs stained with the vile colour. Mirrin kept her head low, watching the sway of the fabric, hiding herself from the horrific scenes surrounding her. Gingerly stepping through the river of blood, her concentration was marred by muffled screams. Quieting the male wails, a sweet feminine voice sang out. Silence filled the air, as the trio continued their trek up the building.

Faced with a large flight of stairs, the men allowed her to hold the rails, the river of blood more viscous than before. Their feet, slipping and sliding on the liquid. Holding tight to the railing, she pulled herself up. Several times her feet slid out, her ass landing with a splash in the blood, jeans soaked with red. Finally reaching the landing, she could smell the stench of decaying flesh, burnt and putrid. A thick haze of smoke, oily and acrid, permeating every corner of the floor.   

An open area and another stair case leading up at the other side of the space. In the middle though the source of the screams and song still marred from sight due to the smoke. With each laboured step Mirrin took towards the pair, the cries became louder and louder. Wrapping around the piercing wails, a sultry melody played, whispering promises of tenderness, patience and love.

The smoke cleared slightly, revealing another man wrapped in steel. Kneeling, his body trembling with exertion. Slinking around him, a purple creature, golden chains skimming over her sleek body. A perfect talon, sliding over the jaw of the man, lifting his face to hers. Searching, probing, finding, the exact way in. “Isn’t this everything you wanted, my love.” Her voice dripped with lies. “A wife, children, a home, my love.”

 

_“Isn’t this what you want, Mirrin?” Her mother’s question permeated through. Her long thin fingers, patting the strong hand of the young man, perched next to her. Mirrin looked over at him. Not overly tall, thin but not weedy, his double-breasted suit jacket making his shoulders look wider than what they really are. “A husband, children, a home?” A rare smile graced her mother’s aging face. The man nodded, “You will want for nothing, Mirrin.”_

 

“Yes,” the armoured man whispered, “Please.”

 

She was shoved towards the other staircase. Shrieks and wails left behind as they ascended to the tower above. The men chuckled above her. “Serves the Templar right,” One said nastily. “Yea,” The other sneered. “Payback for making Surana tranquil.”

If Mirrin was doubting her sanity before, she certainly was now. Templar, Surana, Tranquil? She couldn’t be… could she?


	5. Mundane

_Tayce would be laughing if she could see me now_ , Mirrin’s wandering mind supplied. Still shackled, the petite woman was forced to kneel in the remnants of – god, she doesn’t want to know. Her skin-tight jeans soaked with blood and ichor, ruddy handprints marring her once white, crisp collared shirt, from where she was held. Her dirty blonde hair, tacky with the oily smoke. A far cry from the perfectly manicured appearance her mother had drilled into her.

 _What does Tayce say?_ Thought Mirrin. _I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees._ Sneaking a glance around the final room of the tower, she shuddered at its familiarity. _Not sure if that is a good policy in this situation_ , her thoughts desperately racing to formulate a plan. _Compliance still seems to be a better for survival_.  

“What is this?” Finally, the grand enchanter granted her an audience. Her previous captors supplying the mage with a fanciful story of Mirrin falling out of the fade as they cast a summoning spell. “She doesn’t look like a demon,” Uldred’s unctuous eyes, running up and down her small frame. “We don’t think she is,” explained one of the robed men. They looked at each other with worried glances. “We think… well… she… ah.” The lack of coherency in their explanation was grating on the grand enchanter. Annoyance plastered on his face, Mirrin curled over herself as much as possible. “Out with it, man!” Uldred demanded. The other of her captors, took over from they bumbling mage. “We think she has some power,” they shoved her slightly towards the more powerful mage. “There were some bonds, wrapping around her as she fell.” The explanation simple, and yet Mirrin was confused. She did not see any of these so-called bonds.

“Crimson bonds?” inquired an aged feminine voice. Her captors again stumbled over their answer, risking the ire of their betters. The woman had moved within Mirrin’s sight, her robes a deep burgundy, her straight grey hair pulled back into a harsh bun. Mirrin shivered, _a cross between Mrs Whitby and Mother, ugh!_

“Were they crimson bonds?!?” the woman was firmer in her question this time. Wide eyed and trembling now, the men nodded their assent. With a growl, the woman spun on her heels, and rushed over to a table, laden with towers of books. Rifling through several of the ancient tomes, the female mage thumped each down on the wooden table top, with a disgusted noise. “No, no, no.” Attacking another stack, she carried on with discarding the unwanted books.

Mirrin watched the woman with interest, wondering what she was looking for, and how it related to her. The pile of rejected books was growing, their browned cracked spines, listing a range of topics from herbology to demon summoning, to lost civilisations. Nothing seemed to have a common theme. _But then_ , she thoughts, _I’m not a trained mage._

Turning to scan her surroundings, she caught sight of Uldred staring at her. Suddenly, Mirrin’s skin pricked, her veins pulsing with a pull of power within and without her. Tearing through her body, something searched, prodded, probed, until it stopped. Sniffing, through his hooked nose, Uldred turned away from the trembling woman. “Mundane.” His voice held contempt and derision. With that he swept away to focus on something else, leaving Mirrin sobbing on the floor.

“What!” the woman now screamed at him. “What did you just say?” her black eyes defying the age that her face showed. Uldred had already turned his back to them, walking out of the main chamber. “She is mundane, forget her and throw her in with the templar,” he waved a hand to dismiss his underlings. “She may come in handy later when we need her blood.” Already distraught from Uldred’s search, Mirrin’s sobbing intensified at her death sentence. _Live on your feet, don’t die on your knees_ , Tayce’s voice circled inside her.

Black eyes landed on Mirrin’s crumpled form, a similar invasion of power, searching, scanning. Holding back a scream, she met the intrusion with a growing resolve. _Live on your feet._ The power had stopped its path. Standing on rickety legs, Mirrin matched the gaze of the other woman. Black meeting blue. Slowly, she held herself up, keeping steady. Again, the woman tried to search Mirrin, only to find her power hitting a wall within her. A nervous giggle left her chapped lips, as the woman stared in confusion. “How?” the elderly mage whispered. Her face fell to a frown, “You’re not mundane. Bloody Uldred.” Whatever the woman uttered next it did not matter.

Shoulders back, chin held high, Mirrin was on her feet. But only for a second. A dull thud echoed through her skull. Pain blooming from the back resonated around her head, making her teeth chatter together. As she fell, her diminishing sight made out one of her captors holding a staff just behind her. And then blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for missing the post last week. Work needed to come first. To get back on schedule a double post between Silk and Gossamer. Thanks for reading :D


	6. Blood

Dum, dadum.

Dum, dadum.

The drumming of her blood within her veins sung its rhythm against her temple.

Swish, swish.

Swish, swish.

She could hear it run its course through her arteries. Travelling around her body, keeping her alive.

Drip, drip.

Drip, drip.

Single drops gathered under her nose, dropping down from her cheek to land in the growing puddle under her. Lying in the pool of congealing blood, her cheek and hair were ruddy with the hardening liquid.

“Oh god, why did I wake up?” she moaned, her chin disturbing the surface of the tacky puddle. One eye opened slowly, the other stuck closed. Groaning, “Why did I open my eyes?” Gingerly she pushed herself up off the floor to a sitting position. Her head lolled around, as she blinked away the fuzziness in her mind. Her blue eyes focussing on the things closest to her first.

Scanning her body, it seemed like everything was still there. Albeit covered in blood. “Damn, is that all mine?” patting her hands down her body, she concluded that it wasn’t. “Then where did it all come from?” Her eyes now able to focus on more followed the pool out from her to the surrounding room.

“Oh god, no,” she whispered.

The pool of blood extended across the entire floor of the room. Its passage leading back to a heap of meat. Crawling up the stone walls, the meat grew. Sinew and tendons, arteries and veins. It was as if it was alive. Throbbing with blood, the growth pulsated in time with Mirrin’s own heart.

Each bulbous mass lurched and retreated, growing. She could see hands and feet push against its membranous skin, clawing and scratching their way through. But never managing to find enough traction against the impervious surface.

Grey eyes widening at the sight, her face drained of her own blood. Her stomach clenched, bile rising as the truth of the matter dawned upon her.

Not meat. People.

Consumed people.

Turning, she desperately searched for a place. Vomit racing up her oesophagus, forced its way past her closed mouth and hands, to splatter against a shimmery blue barrier. Sliding down the incandescent surface, the acrid smell intensified as the liquid evaporated against the heat of the magical wall.

Tears, vomit, blood, covered the petite woman. Her perfect clothes stained and dirtied. Dirty blonde hair unrecognisable against clumps of coagulated blood that snared and matted her silky locks.

Tentatively she took one step back into the blue cage. Then another. She kept on going, wanting to get as much distance between her and the cage as she could, until the backs of her legs hit something solid and warm.

And moving.

“Get away from me demon!” it roared.

The thing reared up. Its steel and fabric clacking into place as its limbs unfurled from their rest. Up and up it went.

Mirrin, trapped between the deadly barrier, and now this beast, stood still shaking in terror.

Finally, the last piece of the armour clacked into place, and the thing turned to face the small woman.

It was a man.

A very large, very angry, and very dangerous man.

“Cullen,” she whispered.

Recognition flashed across his face, “Elde?” his voice incredulous.

A smile danced across her impish features. Shaking her head, she gently laughed. “No, Mirrin. Her sister.”

Confusion clouded his eyes again, his features settling back into their lethal glare. A gloved hand reached to the non-existent sword at his hip. Cursing, he grasped at the air. “Get away from me demon!”

“What? No! I’m no demon!” Mirrin implored the man. Her head shaking, tears streaming down her face making tracks on her soiled skin, she raised her hands in an attempt to calm the raging wall of steel in front of her.

“I don’t believe you.” His movements had an edge of murder to them. One move from him, and Mirrin was sure he would snap her in half.

“He said… he said,” she was a mess. Her chest heaved from the terror that ran up and down her body. “I was mundane.” The admission left her like her last breath. Her body crumpled back down to the bloodied floor, only moving to draw in air for her quiet sobbing.

The knight looked down upon the woman in front of him. _Why did I say that name? I don’t even know a woman of that name._ Shaking the thoughts from his head he considered the sobbing creature in front of him. She looked so pathetic, harmless even, before him. _She could still be a demon_ , he admonished himself at his weakening stance. _True_ , he argued back, _but she could also be telling the truth. Am I that far gone that I have lost all hope? Is this chance worth losing your life for Rutherford?_

As the internal argument played within his mind, he didn’t notice that the woman had regained some semblance of control.

When the dull thrum of blood pulsing once again echoed around the room, Cullen noticed that the sobbing had subsided. “Mirrin?” his baritone voice gentle, hiding the unease he still felt. Slowly he knelt beside her.

Her big steel blue eyes were the only parts of the woman, that were not sullied by the viscera covering their surroundings. Reaching a trembling hand up, she flicked the breast plate of his armour. “I prefer the other one,” she all but whispered.

Regarding the woman quizzically, the soldier pulled one steel glove off his large hand, dropping it to the floor unheeded. Tenderly he reached out and wiped away the tears and gore that stuck to her cheek. The effort was futile, but for the gentle look in her eyes. He gasped when she nuzzled against his hand. _Careful man, she is looking for safety, nothing more._ Nodding at his own redirection, he allowed the woman this moment of connection.

After a while, she sighed and pushed his hand away. Startled at feeling the loss of her warmth, Cullen stood back up and awkwardly looked around the room for grounding. Her gentle laugh brought him back to her. “Thank you,” her voice quiet, but her face open and honest.

The man nodded but said no more.


	7. Picnic

_Mirrin’s feet were frozen against the hard, unforgiving cobblestones. Each step she took, her bare feet were poked with the sharp corners of the tumbled stones. Her footsteps punctuated with flecks of blood being left behind. Wrapping her ragged clothes around her, she scurried unseen through the busy alley way, trying to find her quarry. Under sheets of metal, behind stacks of fire wood, she did not stop looking until…_

_“No!” she shouted to the redheaded dwarf. “No! Stop!”_

_It was too late. The dwarf was already gone. Moving through the crowd like quicksilver. Turning her attention back to where the dwarf was, Mirrin’s big blue eyes landed on what she had been seeking, now nothing more a pile of rags and dying flesh._

_“Oh Cullen,” she whispered as she pushed back a lock of blonde curls. “This can’t be your destiny.” Steel faced, she scanned back through time searching for the right point. “No, this won’t be your destiny,” Mirrin confirmed._

 

For the second time that day she woke up wishing she hadn’t. Still contained in the magical cage. Still surrounded by consumed corpses. Still covered in blood and viscera. “Ugh,” she sniffed as the waft of decaying meat assaulted her nose. A gentle chuckle made her body jump. Realising that was because she was leaning against the source of the chuckle, she pushed herself into a sitting position, and found herself face to face with, _Cullen friggin Rutherford_ , her memory supplied.

“Um, hi,” she gave the man a coy smile. He stared at her, his face impassive. Mirrin could see the pain that he was hiding. The strain of his experiences threatening to overcome his calm demeanour. He nodded in recognition but said nothing. Realising how close they actually were, she scooted away from the soldier finding her own place within their confines.

“So, ah, how long have you been in here,” she waved a hand around the room, not really wanting to acknowledge it, but still referring to it. Cullen tilted his head slightly towards her, his honey coloured eyes darkening with contained rage. “A month, give or take a few days,” he snarled.

Mirrin blinked in disbelief. He had been here for that long? “What do they want with us?” The man looked at her incredulously, the snarl in his voice mirrored on his face. “What do you think they want with us? They mean to kill us. For what end, I don’t know.” His head dropped in resignation as he whispered the last part.

The pair remained silent for a while, the thrum of blood pulsating in the sacs of devoured corpses the only sound within the room. Mirrin watched the young templar. He was still clothed in armour, but it was dented and sullied with ichor. His shock of blonde curls was slicked to his scalp and neck from sweat, blood and tears. The young face lined, eyes sunken into his skull, skin a deathly grey pallor. _He looks like crap,_ she sighed. “What happened?”

He barely moved, but from him a nasty laughed emanated. “What happened, she asked as if we had a picnic,” he snarked, his whiskey coloured eyes boring holes into hers. “What happened is we were overrun by blood mages. They summoned demons. And one by one my brothers were dragged to their deaths.” He waved a gauntleted hand towards the stairs leading back up to the tower room. “You are the only one that went in alive and came back out alive.” His voice held an accusation of ‘why you?’

“And you?” she continued her inquiry, a morbid need to know what lay in store for her.

Shaking his head, he began, “Why do you...? No, never mind, you want to know I’ll tell you.”

Tears once again fell freely to the ground. She shouldn’t have asked. But now she knew. Beaten. Raped. Tortured. Not necessarily in that order. And when the demon had had enough of you, slain. The depravity of what may be her fate was laid bare. She considered the man before her. He was the same age as her, and yet he had seen things that no one should see in any life time. Somehow, though, he had survived. Survived and managed to be kind when she had needed him to be.

_Doesn’t he become jaded and indifferent to mages?_ she wondered. Recalling the games her sisters played, Mirrin remembered Kirkwall. _He allows Meredith to commit heinous crimes at The Gallows._ She shuffled uncomfortably on the stone floor, her mind still recalling the details of the computer game. _Anders takes a stand and blows up the Chantry, because Cullen won’t defy his superior._ Her face forms a frown as the memories flood back. _No, that is a very simplistic view_.

Unbidden, the memory of her sister’s faces come into view. Their voices laced with sarcasm and mirth. “Say it with me Bioware! The mage templar issue is a morally grey issue with no right answers!” Mirrin gently snorted at the image of her sisters falling over themselves in a fit of giggles at their mantra.

The slide of steel on stone pulled her back from her memories. Cullen was moving. She watched as he slowly pulled himself up to a standing position. Heaving a big sigh, he paced back and forth, his thoughts rolling over and over in his mind with each step taken. He did not stop until the heavy wooden door, leading back down the tower was pried open.

They were no longer alone with just their thoughts.


	8. Comfort

Ashen faced and covered in blood, the Wardens walked out of the tower room. Blankly staring ahead towards the way back down, they hardly acknowledged Cullen and Mirrin. Round and round they travelled in relative silence. Each lost in their own thoughts to strike up a conversation.

Mirrin, of course, was familiar with each of the companions; Morrigan, Alistair, Wynne, Sten, Leliana, and she recognised ‘The Warden’, was a male, warrior Cousland. _Hmm, that will be interesting come the Landsmeet_ , she remembered. Each companion became more real to her as they traversed the corridors of the tower. No longer a 2D scripted character, Mirrin could see where the writers of the game had not captured the intricacies of their personalities and being. _It will be interesting to see how they develop through all of this_ , she thought.

Startled at her own thought, Mirrin stopped. _No, no I need to stay here where it is safe,_ she chided herself _. I won’t make it out there._ It didn’t really matter what she wanted though, Knight-Commander Greigor made the final decision about her.

“What? No! I want to stay here, it is safer here,” she pleaded. Greigor chuckled, “You will be fine child. This is no place for you.” Mirrin desperately looked to the Wardens for assistance. “But, Ser, I can clean, cook, anything!” her eyes were frantic with the possibility she could be sent away. _Away, out there on my own. I’ve never been on my own._ _Always with mother, or John. Never really on my own. I can’t survive, I won’t survive_.

“No! You can’t send her out there,” Cullen vehemently argued. “She just appeared from a blood magic ritual. She’s probably a demon.” The intensity of Cullen’s hatred radiated off him.

“She is no demon, Ser Cullen,” Greigor’s voice calm and authoritative. She couldn’t help the tears that pricked at her eyes. _After everything, he thinks I’m a demon_. Mirrin turned her head so he would not see the pain that was forming in her eyes. _No, he won’t believe that I’m me. He has been too damaged_.

“There is no place for her here,” the Knight-Commander made his decision. Cullen growled and shouted that it was folly letting her go, his words biting at her. She shook her head, she could not leave him this way.

Carefully, she picked her way around the other templars and walked up to the damaged soldier. “You are not what happened to you here, Cullen,” she gently whispered. “This does not have to define you.” The man growled in anger at her. “No, this is not you.” He quietened down at her soothing voice. “Remember why you became a Templar and hold it in your heart as your truth.” His eyes widened at her comfort. “I… I… will try,” he conceded.

Greigor watched as the tiny slip of a woman managed to comfort the lad. _She has no idea what she is_ , he thought. _Hopefully, she will change things for the best._ Smiling, he gathered up a few provisions. “Mirrin,” he called her over. “I will not let you go without anything. Wynne, will help you organise some appropriate attire, and here are some things you will need as you travel.” Mirrin sniffed her thanks and made her way to where Wynne was with the Wardens.

“I heard him child,” she said gently. “Let’s get you ready for our journey.” Wynne pushed her timidly, guiding her to the quartermaster. “Where are we going to?” the younger woman inquired. The aging healer let out a breath and answered, “We are headed to Redcliffe, Mirrin. You will find employment there with the Arl.”

Mirrin was surprise and somewhat reassured that they did not intend on keeping her with them. The Wardens had a Blight to overcome. Yes, she knew what they would encounter, but really, she was a liability. No way of defending herself. No idea about camping. No idea about anything. _That was what Mother and John were for_ , her thoughts were beginning to grate on her. Look, on the way to Redcliffe I will tell them everything to prepare them. _And then when we get there I will get a job at the castle._ She planned. _So, what will I have to tell them?_

She was too busy running through the game in her mind to notice what Wynne was handing to her. Absent mindedly she pulled on the leathers and cotton garments, allowing the other woman to tighten the leather thongs holding the pieces closed. Finally, a pair of long brown boots were pushed into her hands. 

"Wha?... Oh!” she exclaimed, finally noticing her transformation. Gone were her blood-soaked earth clothes, instead she wore brown leather skin tight pants, an unbleached cotton shirt that had delicate embroidery on the arms. Over the top of that was a leather corset… no chest armour. _Definitely armour_ , she concluded. _It covers my vital areas but leaves room for movement_. 

“We will have to do something about your hair at camp,” pondered Wynne. “The boys got me some lovely soaps earlier, it will make your hair smell divine.” Mirrin nodded, and wrapped her hair up into a messy bun, away from her neck and new clothes. “Well, you are done, my dear. Let us return to the others outside.”

The young woman nodded and followed without a word. The soldier at the door gave the pair a nod and opened the massive wooden doors. Day light streamed through the opening beckoning for them to leave Kinloch Hold behind. Without a second thought they left the accursed tower.


	9. I. Not We.

She had been tackling a particularly stubborn knot in her hair for the past few minutes now. The matted, blood soaked, crusted dreads were gone. Washed away with a variety of soaps from Wynne, leaving the silky locks fragrant with rose, lemon, and (what she later found out was) crystal grace. The resident surly witch had seen Mirrin struggle to use her fingers to get the knots out and had stalked over from her hovel to give the earthling an ivory comb.

“Thank you,” Mirrin said shyly.

“’Tis nothing,” Morrigan dismissed her gratitude.

Content to sit and play with the knots in her hair, she watched the Wardens and their companions go about their business in the camp. Missing was Ohgren, Shale and Zevran. She had learnt from the elderly mage that the Wardens had come here straight from Lothering, needing the mages to help with the Archdemon.

 _Good to know_ , Mirrin thought. _That means they will be going to Redcliffe next, and I can stay there and ride this out_.

The last of the knots had been freed, and she was now running the comb through her long, damp, dirty blonde hair. Lost in thought she did not notice the two warriors had stopped talking and were looking at her with hesitation.

“You talk to her.”

“No, you do it.”

The childish squabble finally alerted Mirrin to their interest. She was no a novice when it came to the attention of males. Her mother had instructed her on the intricacies of attracting a high-class mate, and her petite stature and demure looks were easily put to use in making a confident man a stuttering fool.

Flicking her hair around to the side, she pulled it into a long plait, and tied it off with a leather thong. A coy smile, and a quick glance at the men, along with a sway of hips and timid voice, they would be wrapped around her little finger in a matter of minutes.

“You must be the wardens?” she inquired with a bat of her baby blues. Alistair had gone a deep shade of red, but the other one just tilted his head to the side and gave her a smug grin.

“Aye,” he said.

“Thank you for taking me to Redcliffe,” she simpered, sneaking another look at the warden prince.

The other warden continued to answer. “No problem lass, just make sure you keep up your end of the bargain and were good.”

Mirrin was confused. “Bargain?”

The warden snorted, “Yes, Wynne said you can cook and clean. That is what you offered to the Circle, so you can now do it here to earn your keep.”

The woman blanched, “I can’t… I can’t do any of that.” The warden gave her a pointed look. “I was never allowed to cook at home,” she stammered through an explanation. “I’ve never slept outdoors before, never been in a tent.” Her voice was taking on a ludicrous pitch. “I just said it so I could stay there, stay safe. Not out here with the blight, the killing, the…” she shuddered. “The outdoors.” Mirrin looked at her surroundings in horror. Dirt, trees, fire, tents. She had never been in such a place before, and it showed on her face.

The warden groaned. “Oh great, we’ve got ourselves a princess to take care of. Just our luck.” He threw his hands up in the air and stalked back to the fire leaving just her and Alistair.

She glanced up at the warrior and smiled.

“Seriously you can’t do anything?” he asked. Mirrin shook her head. “Maker’s breath,” he swore. “We don’t have time for this.”

Whatever spell she had placed Alistair under was now wearing off. “I can learn,” she whimpered. He laughed at her.

“We don’t have time for learning, girl.” Shaking his head, he stormed off after the other warden. For the first time in her life her skills had not worked. _Mother would be disappointed_ , she chided. _Two warriors of noble birth, and I can’t get either of them to look at me_.  

It dawned on her that she had not thought of her fiancé during the exchange. What would he think of her throwing herself at the men like a wanton whore? She scoffed at her thoughts, _he would have pushed me to do it myself. Use your assets he would have said. Go and get what I need to be safe. He would have reasoned_.

Tears started to prick at her eyes, _he would have said I needed._

_Not we._

_I…_

Realisation is a bitch when you have crafted a perfect life all based on a foundation of deceit and manipulation.

She ran.

Not far, just enough to ensure some semblance of privacy. Finding a low hanging branch, she climbed up and found solace in the dense canopy. Her tears flowed freely now, each a remembered moment, a word, a look. A lie.

Cackling laughter reverberated around the thick branches and viridian foliage. Lifting her head, she searched around for the maker of the offensive noise. “You!” she yelled. “Haven’t you haunted me enough?” The crow just stared, cawing its response to the woman. “Leave me alone,” she yelled again. “You cost me enough already!” Her blame was misplaced, and she knew it. This raven was not the same as the one in Tayce’s dining room, and neither bird was truly responsible for the deception she lived within all her life.

A second bird dropped down from the higher branches to be with its mate. Both chatting at each other when suddenly they stopped. The silence was deafening, and Mirrin was distracted from her grieving.

“Memories are replayed through your eyes,” one black bird crowed at her.

“Thoughts are examined by your own mind,” the other one contributed.

“Perception is yours and yours alone.” They both supplied.  

“What does that mean?” the woman moaned. “I don’t know what that means?”

The birds jumped down to the lower branches and took off in a flap of black wings. “I don’t know what they mean,” she whispered to herself. Thoughts and memories continued to fall, like her tears, under her scrutiny. “Oh, now I get it,” she frowned. “But what did they mean about perception?”

Images of her with her mother, her fiancé, her sisters flooded her mind. Words of discouragement rattled in her ears, no you can’t do that you are too… small, young, stupid.

Perception.

She had believed it all. Brought up to believe her mother knew what was best.

“Mother is not here,” she said timidly. Memories of her being the dutiful daughter when mother’s friends stayed for tea. The perfect child.

“Mother is not here,” she said a bit firmer. Memories of being shown off on the arm of John. The trophy wife.

“Mother is not here,” she said with conviction. Memories of her standing in front of Uldred. The bold woman.

She looked back at the Wardens and companions for the second time that night. Taking a deep breath, she jumped off her perch and stood tall. _Let’s try this again, shall we?..._

As Mirrin strode to were the Wardens and Wynne were discussing their next leg of the journey, Morrigan watched the woman. _A curious creature_ , the witch considered. _I wonder if this is who Mother was talking about_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello My Lovelies,
> 
> I am not that happy about the next sequence of chapters. I feel they go too fast in developing Mirrin's character and perception of herself. But, this is a first draft story, so I may revise these chapters at a later date. Unfortunately I don't have time to rewrite just at the moment, so I will push through and hope for the best. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> Lemurs


	10. Role

It had been several days since leaving the island tower, and Mirrin was beginning to get the hang of the routine of camp. Each day brought about new challenges for the newly appointed domestic help. Finding enough ingredients for a substantial meal was the most trying, considering how much the Wardens ate. Thankfully, Morrigan had turned out to be a closet sweetheart, teaching the young woman about the various herbs and plants that were paramount for their group’s wellbeing.

Surprisingly, she found that she did have many skills that were useful. The assorted old crafting lessons Mrs Whitby had insisted upon were the handiest. Mirrin had been able to mend numerous shirts, darn several socks, and knit a scarf for Sten, who had insisted that he did not need one whilst shivering. The newest member had caught Morrigan staring at the Qunari’s scarf longingly. Mirrin chuckled to herself when she noticed. _Of course, she wants one, she would have to be freezing wearing just a bikini_.

A friendly chatter filled the air as the group traversed the well-worn roads. The Warden warriors had taken up position at the front of the merry band. Mirrin did not have much to do with the men, finding out that the Cousland was called Damien. Occasionally they thanked her for mending or cooking, but they kept mostly to themselves. _Mourning their lost ones_ , she sighed wishing she could do more for them.

The day before she had rummaged through Bodhan’s wagon store and found a couple of things the boys may have appreciated. Alistair had accepted his silver demon head ring with a stutter and blush, while Damien had just sighed and gave muttered thanks for the silver bracers. She had even brought his attention to the engraved mabari, but nothing seemed to help. 

“Give them time, child,” Wynne had empathised. “The loss of one’s family runs deep.” Mirrin had given the woman a weary smile and agreed. “I don’t know what I would do without my sisters,” she hugged herself as she spoke. “I miss them.” The healer wrapped her arms around the smaller woman. “It is ok to mourn, Mirrin. Even if they are alive.” She nodded and pulled away. “I know,” she whispered.

Sten had kept a solid pace next to her. His staunch posture never faltered against the wagon ruts on the dirt road. Mirrin had to take two steps to his one just to keep up. Staring ahead, the man did not seem to concern himself with his walking buddy. Left to her own devices, the petite woman jumped and pirouetted over the rocks and potholes to a song in her mind. Her lithe body making the jumps look like a dance. A slight incline of his head was the only indication that Sten was paying her any attention.

“You have had dance lessons?” his question was more a statement than an inquiry. Giving the man no reason to believe she had heard him, Mirrin continued her caper. Taking a three-step run up over a particularly large puddle, she landed gracefully and turned back to the kossith. “Since I was two,” she sung out. “Mother thought it was an appropriate waste of my time.”

“And was it?” came the response.

“I can dance all forms of ball room, hip hop, ballet and tap,” she bragged. “But I have no idea how to do my own finances, hold down a job, or even keep a friend.” Shocked gasps came from Leliana as if these were basic skills everyone knows becoming an adult.

“No then,” Sten deadpanned.

She shook her head and laughed. “Yea, Sten. That is a big no on the dance lessons.”

Later that evening in camp, Sten sat by her during dinner.

“Mirrin,” he caught her attention.

Through a mouthful of stew, she answered. “Mmhm?”

Giving her a blank look, “You mentioned that you were not good at many things.”

Sighing, she carefully placed her spoon back in her bowl, and turned to face the qunari head on. “Go on,” her voice was steady.

 “What is your role?”

She laughed, “How Qunari of you.” He maintained his plain look, waiting for an answer.

“Well, ok then,” she shrugged. “My role.” Shuffling her spoon around her bowl, she began to fidget. “My role,” she said again quietly. Her agitation rolling off her.

Tapping the spoon on her bowl, she took a deep breath in and faced it head on. “My role was whatever my mother chose for me.”

Sten was quiet for a while, pondering her answer. When he finally spoke, it was not with derision but with simple curiosity. “That is not usual for your kind I have notice. Many of you fight hard for your own ability to choose your role.”

“Yes, they do,” she admitted sadly. “I found it was easier just to do what Mother wanted.”

Morrigan hissed. “I would never allow my mother to choose my path," she said with indignation.

Leliana quietly said, “And yet you allowed her to order you to come with the Wardens.” The wild witch glared at the rogue but said no more.   

“I need some space,” Mirrin said pushing herself up off the ground and walking away.

Wrapped up in her own sadness, she did not notice when the grief-stricken warriors approached her. Heartache and hopelessness etched on their handsome features Damien pushed an item in her hands. A small tiara with a single gem glinted back up at her. He gave the woman a melancholy grin, “For our princess,” he sassed mildly. “May you finally reign over your own life.”

Looking between each of them, Mirrin’s heart swelled. “Thank you,” she breathed. Giving the small woman a friendly pat on her shoulder, Damien nodded. “You need to learn to defend yourself out here Mirrin,” he said plainly. “You will begin your training tomorrow.” Staring up at the black-haired man, she could only nod her head in approval. _Do they mean to keep me on?_ she wondered.

Alistair shuffled his feet in the dirt. Lifting his hands up, she could see that he had been holding something. One long blade and one short one. _A duelist, they mean to train me as a duelist_. “I know what it is like having your life chosen for you,” he mumbled. “If you want to talk, I’m here.” Pushing them in her hands, the big man gave her a peck on her cheek and rushed off to check on the boundaries. Finger tips barely touching where his lips had brushed against her skin, she stared at his retreating form. _Wow_ , her mind scattered. _Just… wow_.


	11. Dancing

Crouching, she eyed her prey. Breathing laboured, and movements messy, he didn’t seem to take notice of the woman watching him. _He’s tiring_ , she noticed. _Left leg heavier than the right. Head wobbling. Sword drooping_. She scanned the makeshift arena. He had positioned himself right in the middle, aware that an attack could come from any side. _Could be bluffing_ , she wondered.

Side stepping, the woman slowly moved towards his blind spot. A single sound would alert him to her presence. Stilling her own breathing, to a rhythm of calm, she waited.

A dull thud indicated that his sword had hit the ground. A sly smile danced across her lips. Moving her weight, she distributed it so her power lay in her take off.

“C’mon Mirrin,” the prey moaned. “We’ve been at this for hours; can we stop now?” The whinging tone convinced her that her prey was not feigning. Alistair was tired and fed up. Swivelling on his back foot, his balance became skewed. Seeing her opening, the small woman sprung like a cat from her position and attacked. Blades sliced through the air, marking the man on his gut and thigh. Both would have been debilitating hits, if the blades were steel. The wood glanced off his armour, leaving a brown stain marking their impact.  

The man took a faltering step back. “Maker’s breath woman, I yield.”

Satisfied at the admission, she jumped back, landing softly on her feet. Blades twirling in her dexterous hands. “As you wish,” she laughed at the warrior.

“How did you get so good, so damn quickly,” he swore, calloused hands rubbing his sore tummy.

Her blue eyes twinkled with mischief. “It’s like dancing,” her lyrical voice explained. “Know the steps and you can improvise where appropriate.”

Alistair shook his head, “And I suppose you are just as good at dancing?”

Laughing openly, her smile lit up her face. “Better.”

The other Warden had been watching Alistair and Mirrin spar for better part of the day. The group had chosen to take an extra day to reach Redcliffe so they could train their newest member.

She was a quick study, learning the steps to basic moves as soon as they were shown to her. It didn’t take much for her to progress onto harder sequences of movements, and just before lunch she was improvising her own moves. Watching, calculating, anticipating.

Damien pushed off from leaning against a thick tree and sauntered over to the pair. The woman pushed back errant locks of hair from her face and turned to him beaming.

He tilted his head at her in recognition, his dark eyes holding hers for a moment. Quickly he walked back to the edge of the ring. Picking up a wooden shield, he weighed it in his hand and frowned. Discarding it with the others, he picked up a smaller one. Satisfied, he strode back. Motioning for her to abandon the smaller sword, he held the shield out for her to slip her arm into its enarmes. Happy with the fit, he gathered up his own two-handed sword and stood to face her.

Taking a moment to roll her shoulders and become accustomed to the new weapon, she tested the weight with a few swipes with the shield to the left and right. It felt strange. Cricking her neck a couple of times, she felt her muscles tense. Lactic acid had built up in her calves and was giving her grief at every move. Her shoulder joints were strained and were angrily screaming their resistance at the new weight.

It had been a long day, but she was not going to back down now.

Damien took a few slow lunges at her, so she could get used to the differences between weapons. Each hit almost knocked the shield from her arm she was that tired. While she was fast, she was not strong. Returning to a defending stance, she waited for the man to attack.

Swinging his blade low, Mirrin had to coordinate blocking the hit with her shield, and keeping her sword crossed over her body. As Damien swung his long blade, she dropped hers, leaving her body open for a return attack. The man pivoted and curved his blade upwards. The tip of his sword grazed her chest as it passed and caught itself in the crock of her arm and shield. The weight of the sword and the speed of its trajectory tore the shield from her arm. Screaming, she let her sword go to pull her injured arm against her.

Fatigue swallowed her whole. Her body shook with over use, muscles cramped, and bones ached. Her clutched arm, mottling blue-black with welts of hot red. Abruptly, she was silent. Not a tremor across her abused body was seen.

Alistair and Damien watched as the woman went from wailing like a banshee to as silent as a ghost. _Uncanny_ , Damien thought. Slowly he walked over, “Mirrin,” he said gently.

The woman looked up at him, blue eyes looking but not seeing. Quickly she gathered herself up and stood at attention in front of him. Her injured arm forgotten in her trance. “Yes Mother,” she said diffidently.

Damien looked back to Alistair in question, the other man just shrugging his ignorance. The man tried again, “Mirrin?” The woman plastered on a demure smile and stood still. “Yes Mother?” she said again.

“Mirrin are you alright?” Alistair tried. The new voice alerted the woman. A grimace formed on her pretty face, and her head fell. “I’m sorry, I failed you Mother,” she said quietly. Her body was slightly trembling, the warriors could see her muscles fight to keep her steady. “I will do better next time,” she whispered. Mirrin started to walk in a straight line. Each step she hesitated, before taking the next.

The men watched, dumbfounded at Mirrin’s behaviour.

“Wynne!” called Alistair cautiously.

The elderly mage rushed over, her hands glowing gently. Motioning for Damien to stand near the blonde woman, Wynne sent her magic into her trembling body. Fatigue won, and the petite woman crumpled against the large man.

“What was that?” he inquired as he studied the sleeping form in his arms.

Wynne looked up at him, anger plain in her eyes, “There is a reason why she pushed herself today.” 

“What do you mean?”

Wynne waved her arm to the side to emphasise her point. “She has been taught she cannot fail. Or did you not pick up on her self-deprecation when she got something wrong?” her voice hard, sick of their dense responses.

Alistair ran his hand through his hair, and turned away in embarrassment, “Andraste’s knickers,” he swore. “Who could have done that to her?”

The healer gave a scornful laugh. “You daft boys, have you not listened? Did you not see?” Glaring at each man, waiting for an answer, she huffed when their faces still showed their idiocy.

“Her mother,” Wynne spat at them. “Her mother punished this sweet girl for her perceived failings.”

Finally, realisation dawned upon the Wardens.

“Well, shit,” said Cousland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find it interesting how different Mirrin and Tayce are, but they are very similar with their experiences with, and reactions to, their mother. However, what they do with the experience is vastly different... but then again, maybe not. I am having fun finding out. 
> 
> Concrit always welcome as this is my first time writing, and this is a rather ambitious project. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	12. Crows

It was the murky gloom that obscured the view of Redcliffe Castle that first alerted Mirrin that all was not well in the Arling. The sun bleached carcasses of animals and men alike was the second.

“What happened here?” Leliana’s lilting voice barely contained her usual gusto.

Mirrin was again paired with Sten for travelling and was peering around his muscular torso at the ghastly road ornaments. “Zombies,” she said without thinking. Transfixed by the rotting flesh for a moment, she jumped when the Qunari warrior cleared his throat above her expectantly. Glancing back up she saw his stoic face scrutinising hers.

“Zombies,” she said again a bit louder. “I forgot the stupid zombies.”

Her companions had now stopped and were watching the small woman intently. Staring down the road they were travelling on, the woman continued to mutter to herself. This was becoming a common occurrence for their newest member. Several times that day she had stopped what she was doing to stare into the distance. The first time she did it, Leliana had the misfortune of attempting to pull Mirrin out of her reverie. The result of which was Leliana on the ground with the other woman’s dagger at her throat.

Everyone gave her a wide berth now and just allowed her to come back to them on her own.

Raising her hand slowly, her small slender fingers pointed in the direction they were travelling. “Ambush. Soon. That way.”

Damien and Alistair looked at where she was pointing, and then back at the woman. “By… what did you call them? Zombies?” asked Damien.

The honey blonde woman shook herself and laughed. “No silly,” she wandered over to where he was standing. “People for the ambush. Zombies at Redcliffe.” With a wide grin at the Warden, she moved off and motioned for Sten to join her. “We are taking point for now,” she called out behind her.

The black-haired man just stared at her small back, and then at his companions. All of whom shrugged and followed her. “Shouldn’t we ask how she…” he was cut off when he realised he was alone. Even his mabari had followed her.

_Who the void is she?_ he wondered. _And how did she just take command?_

 

Mirrin noticed that the road was narrowing. Rocks and shrubs growing over their passageway. Dipping down and around a narrow bend they were walking into the perfect ambush point. She was the first to see the upturned wagon. Signalling for everyone to stop, she held a single finger to her lips. When everyone had caught up, she motioned for Bodhan and Sandal to remain where they were. The Warriors would take point and trigger the ambush. Mages and rogues would skim the edges, taking down any hidden enemies.  

Everyone had their orders. Nodding her head decisively, everyone moved to their designated positions. One last look at the upturned wagon through the overgrown hedges, her mind shimmered at the edges.

Paired up with Morrigan, the women slipped through the undergrowth using it to camouflage their approach. Circling several archers and mages from behind, they kept to the shadow until it was time.

Staring intently at an enemy archer, Mirrin blinked innocently. When she opened her eyes, it was like she was looking through a trick mirror, but the mirror showed the person several steps ahead. She shook her head to rid it from the prickling sensation behind her eyes. Looking back up, she gasped. Holding her trembling hand over her mouth so she could not make another sound, she looked again. Mirrin could see everyone. And several steps into the future.

Suddenly it was on.

The woman had given way to a blonde elven Crow, and his cronies.

And Mirrin reacted.

Blood sprayed out over the road as she slit the throats of two archers without a thought. Ducking under a staff, her blades flew up and into the back of a mage rendering him useless. The last mage was finally waking up to the situation and had rushed over to help her friends. Mirrin kicked out her leg, tripping the woman. Instantly she was on top of her. Double blades slicing her life to shreds.

Lifting her blood splattered head to see how her companions were going, she was faced with a dozen startled faces. The woman had only just left the upturned wagon. All other assassins were still hidden away in the brush.

“Oh!” she exclaimed as she realised her mistake.

It was too late, the element of surprise foiled. And yet not…

Leliana had noticed the blood bath on the parallel escarpment and had begun her own. The mages were still hiding but barriers over the rogues were evident of their involvement. On the road, the warriors were still standing around in a daze. Except for Sten and Barkspawn, they had managed to round up a particular elf and were about to relieve him of his head.

“Stop!” Mirrin’s voice commanded the battlefield.

Racing from her crag, she skimmed down the rocky terrain to stand in front of the Qunari and Mabari. Blade held ready to attack, teeth ready to tear and maul, not a move was made from the pair.

Pausing to gasp for breath, the earthling rested her hands on her knees and allowed her head to fall. “Stop,” she said through intakes of air. Puzzled looks were shared between the gathering friends, each staring at the elf lying prostrate on the ground.

Regaining control of her breathing, she dared to look back up. Everything seemed back to normal. _Good_ , she thought. _SNAFU._

The small woman pulled herself up to her full height, straightened her shoulders, and held her chin up. “Right,” she said, “Sorry about that everyone, not sure what happened.” Looking down at the groaning elf, her eyebrow lifted in consideration. “Zevran Arianai, I believe?”

The elf lifted his wheat blonde hair. “Ohh… I rather thought I would wake up dead or not wake up at all as the case may be,” he snarked somewhat unenthusiastically. Taking note of his living situation, her continued. “But I see you haven’t killed me yet.”

The young woman glared at the crow. “Yet,” she said with a slight nod of her head. “Get up, Zevran. We have work to do.” With that, she turned and left them as she walked back up the road.

“Wait!” shouted Damien, “Wait, I have some questions I want to ask before we just let him go.” Unsure of what exactly was happening the man stood in front of everyone barring their way. From behind him, Mirrin was shouting over her shoulder. “His name is Zevran. He is an Antivan Crow. He is here to kill the wardens. Loghain sent him. No, he did not think he would succeed. Anything else?”

The young noble warden stared at the elf, who was now sitting in the dirt. A smirk plastered on his dusty face. “Ah, no. Not at this stage.”

Damien glanced back over his shoulder. The woman was standing near at the upturned wagon. Hands on her hips and her chin held relaying her obstinate demeanour. “Good, now let’s go. Redcliffe won’t hold out for much longer.”


	13. Perception

It was the wild witch that found her.

Tucked up in the boughs of an ancient elm, Mirrin had sought solace. It was bad enough that she had been reprimanded by the Wardens, she didn’t need the pitying stares of her campmates to muddy her thoughts.

Swearing at having to climb the tree, Morrigan had hauled herself up onto a nearby branch. Breathing in heavily, she slowly let it out. “So,” she began. “Another one who is threatened by a woman.” She curled her lip in disgust.

Mirrin gave a faint smile at the witch. “He’s right,” she said softly.

“Nonsense,” Morrigan scoffed.

“But he is,” she pleaded. “I have no idea what I am doing. I had no right to give anyone orders. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

The black haired woman glared at her. “Enough wallowing. I did not climb this tree, just to hear you complain about your obvious abilities.”

Picking at the bark on the trunk, Mirrin sniffed. “Why did you come here?”

The witch rolled her eyes. “If you must know, I came to discuss inadequacies and compensating behaviour.”

The blonde woman blinked, “Ah, ok… why?”

A sly grin crossed Morrigan’s red lips. “Mother always said that…”

The moons had risen to be high in the sky, their silvery light dancing across the silent world. Echoes of female laughter could be heard above the treetops. Two muffled thumps broke the laughter to muted giggles. Moving through the undergrowth, the women made their way back to camp.

At the edge, Mirrin reached out, her finger tips grazing the witch’s bare arm. “Morrigan, wait.” The woman turned to face her. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Morrigan huffed, “They are fools.”

The earthling shrugged, “I just wanted them to like me.”

The witch glared at her. “If that is all you want out of life, then you are more a fool than they.” Turning, she took several steps to her hovel. Having a change of thought she stared back at the other woman. Studying her for several moments, Morrigan finally said, “I stopped explaining myself when I realised that other people will only understand from their own level of perception.” With a swish of feathers and leather, she marched off to her bedroll, but not before calling over her shoulder. “I would consider what they said to you my dear, and what you actually are.”

Mirrin slowly skirted the campsite to her tent. Slipping through the canvas flaps, she made herself ready for bed. Lying down on the sparse bedding, she wiggled until she found a comfortable spot. Sleep would not come easy that night. Morrigan’s words sung like a mantra in her ears. _What did they say? What am I?_

 

“You have no right to give orders!” he yelled across the campsite. The small woman stood there, despondent. “He was ordered to kill us, how could you let him free?”

“Because, we need him,” she said quietly. Her arms were at her side, head bowed forward in deference. Her shoulders slouched to make her even smaller.

Damien was not entertaining any reason for her behaviour. He was ropeable that this slip of a woman had the audacity to make any decision within camp. “What could we possibly need with a failed assassin?” he sneered, his hands in fists at his sides. “You have single handed exposed all of us to a potential threat!” his voice was getting louder each time. Keeping a safe distance from the girl, he was not trusting his ability to keep his hands from her. She had doomed them all.

“Damien, that’s enough, mate,” Alistair tried to calm the warrior down. “It’s not going to change anything shouting at her.”

Cousland threw his hands in the air, frustrated that no one could see his side. Growling, he turned away. “We should have just killed the elf when he was unconscious. Now if we do it it’s murder.” Swivelling on he foot, he stalked back to the trembling woman. Towering over her, he wanted her to fear him. Then she would learn. “And it’s all your fault,” he spat at her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, choking back tears. Mirrin was standing as still as a statue, only her heaving chest gave any indication that she was alive.

He scoffed at her, “Sorry won’t cut it when our throats are cut in the night.” She still made no movement. He wanted her trembling, he wanted her to fear him. He wanted her to know she was nothing but a silly little girl. He was a Cousland for Maker’s sake, a noble. How dare she take command.

“That is enough Damien,” Wynne’s curt reprimand cut through the stillness of the night. “You have said your piece, now back down.”

Glaring at the elderly mage, the Warden gave no indication that he would follow her direction. “You think your so clever for tripping the ambush, don’t you?” he taunted. She just stood there, eyes downcast. “So clever for taking down your hits before anyone else?” Again, she stood still. _Why won’t she concede?_ his mind jeered him. Wanting to grab her in his hands and shake her until she looked at him, he took a step back. There were many in camp who would defend her, the elf being one of them.

“Don’t ever take control again, you hear?” he spat. Turning away in fury, he stormed over to his tent. He did not hear her respond. Her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, Mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello My Lovelies, 
> 
> I am taking a short break from posting on all three stories as I have run out of written chapters and end of school and Christmas will take up my time for the next few weeks. I intend on starting up again in the new year and should have the next batch of chapters ready to go.
> 
> Have a lovely Christmas, stay safe on the roads, and enjoy the summer holiday. 
> 
> Lemurs xxoo


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